


hard hitter / bread winner

by niktos



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, dadlas, jacket has ptsd, oh my god they were roommates, sokol is a dumbass, sokol likes s.t.a.l.k.e.r., very self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niktos/pseuds/niktos
Summary: i have so much jackol brainrot i needed to write something, so here's the quintessential enemies to lovers au featuring plenty of drama, murder, intrigue, vaguely homoerotic fist-fighting... the classics. it's been a long time since a full length fic so sorry if it's unpolished.
Relationships: Jacket (Hotline Miami)/Sokol (Payday)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57





	1. the colder the stare, the hotter the blood runs

Jacket didn’t have a whole lot of enemies. Most of them were buried six feet deep.

Truth be told, he wasn’t much for personal relations of any kind, positive or negative. Being a notorious serial killer kind of did that to you. More people were afraid of you than tolerated you, and you got more cynical glances than polite smiles, so you just took everything that came your way. When people called him their friend, he twitched irritably but made no protest. When they swore him as a lifelong rival, the extent of his reaction was an eyebrow raise and a grimace.

Which is why he wasn’t exactly fazed when a new heister joined the gang and started rambling on about the same stuff as always.

“I’m not working with that -- freak.” 

The conversation wafted over to Jacket, only just barely between the crunch of Kellogg’s cornflakes (a safehouse specialty), and he made out two accents, a vaguely crazed Russian one and a familiar American one. 

“Listen, Sokol... You don’t have to like him, he’s just your coworker. We all have our issues, here --”

“Yeah. Issue. Big fucking issue. Shit, I can’t believe… I come to America, beautiful country, and this is what I get. I have to live with a murderer.” The silence was tense, just then. Clearly Dallas didn’t have the slightest idea how to fill it. Jacket took another bite of cornflakes. “Do you know how many people he’s killed? People like me? Violently and painfully?”

“He would never do that to any of us. Look, there’s a reason we trust him. He’s an asset.”

“Asset, my ass.” He seemed proud of that one. “Of course you aren’t afraid. You have no reason to be.”

It was eerily silent as Jacket stepped into the kitchen, but even as Sokol was shooting daggers his way and Dallas sighed under his breath, his expression was blank. As per usual. The clatter as he set his bowl down in the sink felt five times louder than normal.

“He’s creepy,” The accent was practically a snarl once they presumed he was out of earshot once again. “So fucking creepy, you see his eyes? Nothing.”

“We can make adjustments so you don’t have to go on heists with him. That’s fine. Just please, try to be civil?”

A scoff. Apparently that wasn’t happening any time soon.

“Right, then, I’ve got one last bit of bad news...”

So Jacket lingered in the hallway with baited breath, almost aching to hear his reaction to this one. There was something entertaining about it, in a weird way, so worked up, and yet, he knew, Sokol would resign himself. He had no choice. He'd came all this way, after all.

“You guys are going to be rooming together.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

\---

The safe house was nice. Really nice, actually. Sure, it was grimy in the basement and occasionally the light bulbs would flicker like a dying star, trying to hold on just a little bit longer, but there was a certain beauty to it all. It had everything they needed. It smelled of them, it held all their precious things, it was a home. Or at the very least something that resembled it. 

Is what Sokol would’ve said, had he not been forced to room with a guy that had practically committed his own mini mass genocide against people of his race. Due to “renovation.” Which was really just a fancy way of saying the room that was meant to be his, the only one not occupied at the moment, had an asbestos problem. Or mold. Something along those lines. The truth was, he could have cared less: whatever apparently deadly substance was keeping him from the living quarters that were rightfully his would at least reliably kill him. Jacket -- well, Jacket was an entirely different beast.

It was hard to say when he would wake up and find his lower half hacked to bits.

So at first he vehemently refused, and found any other accommodations he could think of: the floor, the couch, the bathtub, and on one particularly desperate night, the dining room table. Nothing worked. Every morning he woke up from sporadic bits of sleep feeling sore and miserable.

Rarely he had dreams, even more rarely did he remember them, but at the safehouse, he dreamed of home. It was an ache, deep like venom in his bones, and though he enjoyed his coworkers’ company (besides Jacket, of course), it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever get a good night’s sleep again.

“You look fucked up.” A dark-haired head popped over his shoulder, and Clover smiled a little, though there was a certain distrust to it. There always was, with the heisters. They knew enough about the world to never fully let their guard down.

“You think so?” Sokol smiled back through the mirror, with a certain self-effacing humour that made him tilt his head and study himself momentarily and see what she meant. The effects weren’t immediately obvious, but clearly there if you took the time to look: the shadows on his face, the glazed, unfocused look in his eyes...

“Yeah. But there’s no time to look pretty. I’ve gotta take a shower.” And so he was ushered out into the hallway, or shoved, more like it, straight into Jacket. 

“I apologize.” It was a female voice, and Sokol thought he was really losing it until his eyes outlined Jacket’s body, following his arm to… oh. A tape recorder. So just being good, old, regular mute just wasn’t weird enough for him.

“Yeah. Whatever.” His eyes were half-lidded, in equal parts exhaustion and skepticism. Was he supposed to apologize too? Make small talk? He had zero interest in doing any of that, he couldn’t even find it in himself to bark out some half-baked, curse-laced insult. The obvious thing to do was to shoulder right on past (with a little more aggression than was necessary), and he was about to do just that when the voice spoke again.

“Did you know -- the body needs at least seven hours of sleep every night to function properly--?”

God, that voice made his skin crawl, the way it danced from high to low, low to high. Singing to him, almost. Taunting him, all at the same breath. It was so emotionless, yet the response it gave him was nothing but feeling. Irritation, mostly, maybe a little fear and anxiety. Not that'd he ever admit that aloud. And Jacket’s smirk made it all so much worse. It was a very Jacket smile, one that just barely reached his eyes. Just a quirk at the corners of his mouth and a provocative stare.

“However, the common peregrine falcon -- does well with twelve to thirteen --”

“Shut the fuck up.” It was too early for this. It was too early for him to make trouble, he had been so well-behaved, both of them had, there was no way he was going to take the bait now. All those sleepless nights would've been for nothing. He felt his nail digging into a scar on his palm, a nervous habit he was trying to quit, but in that moment he could've honestly cared less. The only thing standing between him and pummelling the man before him into a fine brown stain was willpower, and if ripping open his entire arm, wrist to elbow, was what it took, so be it.

“You need rest -- don’t you? -- birdie --” And that was all it took to push him over the edge. Sokol was on him in an instant, with the determination of a man who had this dangled in front of him for four excruciating days and nights. He did this to him, and he still had the nerve, the gall, to tease him like this, to dance on his fucking grave like one of those funny animated skeletons from old cartoons. 

There was blood, quickly and violently, smeared on their jaws and their necks and their hands, heavy and metallic in the air like rust in the summer sun. It was hard to tell whose shade of red was whose, but the way they fought was distinct: Jacket with some restraint, his strikes were focused, well-placed. Not a punch was thrown without purpose, and yet it all came with an instinctive elegance. He knew exactly what to do.

When the Russian grabbed his hair he made an involuntary sound of protest, which was weirdly intimate and probably the closest thing to talking he’d done thus far, but it was the last thing Sokol was paying attention to. He fought with everything he had, with no inhibitions. Like he was drowning and thrashing to the surface, like his only thought was trying to survive.

They would’ve continued like this for some time longer, had it not been for the convenient arrival of Dallas, who somehow managed to peel each other off long enough for them both to take a breath, though such a word was delicate in comparison to the deep, desperate inhales they took now.

“I told you to be civil.” Their leader’s tone was even, but not without a sense of anger to it. Dallas was accusing him of something, of what? Not allowing himself to take shit from a glorified lanky high schooler in a Halloween costume mask?

“Tell that to him first. Asshole… Fuck...” Attempting to wipe off the blood dribbling down his nose and chin only smeared it further, a vivid shade that ghosted over both their bodies, possessive and threatening. A map of where their hands had been.

Sokol restrained himself from looking at either of them now, knowing Jacket could blink wrong and he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself from throwing himself on him again, and Dallas would probably take eye contact as an invitation for a lecture. At least Clover took long showers. God only knows what she’d have to say about this.

“I’m going back to bed.” The tape recorder clattered across the floor, maybe intact, maybe not. Sokol didn’t care. The only thought in his mind was getting this disgusting, sticky, American blood off his skin and enjoying just a little more sleep.

And even as he turned away to head to the kitchen, where, with any luck, he could scrub away the scarlet anger that seared his flesh, he could hear so distinctly a click, then a voice.

“Thank you for flying with us.”


	2. liquid courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for heavy drinking

Their first heist together wasn’t a total disaster. Surprisingly, Sokol didn’t find it in himself to bitch and moan when Sydney broke the news to him. Maybe having the chance to beat the shit out of his roommate who also happened to be his worst enemy was just the kind of therapy he needed, or maybe he was just afraid if he pushed Dallas any further he’d be kicked out of the gang for good. Which, exactly, it happened to be was unbeknownst to everyone but him.

Unsurprisingly, Jacket was calm and collected even on the job, commanded the civilians with quiet authority, ordered them to get down and handcuff themselves, which they did without hesitation. Sokol was similarly composed: empathy wasn’t hard for him, and even with his less-than-flawless English he knew exactly what to say to calm everyone down. When the operation got noisy, chaotic, he brought the silence.

“Nice work, well done everybody.” The couch made a sound of protest under their collective weight as they all piled into the living room. It really couldn’t have gone any more flawlessly, and Dallas didn’t even have to voice that he was pleased, but he did.

“In and out, like so.” Wolf snapped his fingers and Sokol mirrored his grin. Of course he was selected to join the gang for a reason, and no one was about to question his abilities, but it was only natural for him to want to prove himself. He was glad he could do it in such a big way, right off the bat.

“Vodka for all my friends!” He spread his arms with mock grandiose, resting them along the back of the couch and receiving an immediate affectionate bap on the head from Sydney.

“It’s only been a week, ya Russian sap, you could try to be a _little_ less stereotypical.”

“I can’t help it,” he pouted, and she just rolled her eyes, and eventually laughed when Hoxton emerged from the fridge holding a crystal bottle by the neck. 

Before long, they were all fully, completely, entirely wasted. The energy of the room made Sokol’s skin tingle, and suddenly he was apparently quite a bit funnier than usual, and a whole lot louder. They all had stories to tell -- of heists gone wrong, time in the military, their families back home -- and as the words kept spilling, so did the alcohol. There were toasts, “to our new member, and Jacket beating him silly,” and eventually drinking games, but at some point they were all taking turns with the bottle for no reason in particular. 

"Then _he_ said, that's not a civilian! That's my wife!" The story, disjointed as it was (as a result of Hoxton repeatedly getting distracted by several other apparently equally interesting stories he wanted to tell) was actually hilarious, and the lot of them roared with laughter. It felt good, for once, to be part of something. Sure, Sokol had a long and illustrious history as a solo heister, and he had no complaints about that lifestyle. There were upsides; you didn't have to worry about other people lagging behind, or arguing with you, and there was a smaller margin of human error. If there was anything he'd learned in his twenty-five years of existence, it was that, no matter how mad things looked, you could always depend on yourself.

And yet, he decided finally, that wasn't even worth giving up... all this, moments like these, just for a bit of peace and quiet. He always felt safest and like he was at his best on a team, he understood his role and executed it perfectly. He was a great conversationalist and a bit of jokester, there were few people he met that didn't get along with. There was a need for camaraderie that ran deep in his veins, through his past, even looking back at his old hockey team. He never hesitated to take hits for them, and he did so frequently. Total trust was rare in this business; after all, you'd be stupid to hope for the best in character from a bunch of notorious criminals. But good company was essential. Things could get grim. Really grim. There was death, violence, and loss every where you turned some days, and in true Russian spirit, Sokol found ways to laugh through it all.

His philosophy was simple: You couldn't choose what happened to you. But you could choose how you reacted to it, how you chose to cope with every crazy thing life threw at you. Some people marvelled at his ability to simply skate through life and take it all in stride. He was no hardened criminal, at least, he didn't appear like one. When you pictured a hardened criminal, you didn't imagine one with such careful gray eyes and a disarming smile.

Eventually, as the last breaths of evening sunlight faded from the sky, and everyone started winding down for the night, Sokol stumbled back to ~~Jacket’s~~ his room and flopped onto the nearest bed. It felt like heaven, freshly made with the faint scent of bleach. 

And just as he felt the waves -- no, the hungry clutches, -- of days upon days of missed sleep lapping at the edges of his mind, he felt a stern hand nudge his shoulder.

“Ah, какого черта…? Oh. It’s yours?”

Jacket reciprocated the blank, slightly puzzled stare for a moment before nodding slightly. It was odd, it seemed everyone nearly forgot about his presence throughout that commotion -- because of course, he couldn’t tell stories or give a dare or make fun of someone not being able to handle their alcohol. He kept to himself because he had no choice. That had to hurt. Sure, Sokol may have had to deal with an odd sense of paranoia and a great deal of distaste for him, but he wasn’t the one that was an outsider. He would never be ostracized that way.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Getting up proved to be easier said than done, and it was hard to say if his roommate could even decipher his words, mumbled and slurred and thickly accented as they were, but apparently it was just clear enough. Dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly with surprise, and Jacket took a step back, raising his hands in an ‘I surrender,’ kind of gesture.

Rubbing his head with the heel of his palm and squinting slightly, even at the faint glow of the TV screen hooked up to Jacket’s gaming console, Sokol hummed softly and fully realized just how bad of a hangover he was going to have the next morning. By the time his eyes refocused to the room, Jacket was perched on the edge of the other bed, looking at him expectantly.

“What...? You want… I staying here?” Trying to read his expression was as futile an effort as ever. There was no amusement in his eyes, no sadistic smile, not even a hint of visible pity. But the slight nod he gave in confirmation was all Sokol needed --anything saving him from using energy he didn't have was merciful at this point. With a huff, he flopped back over, passing out on the spot, right on the fresh white covers.

\---

By the time he woke up the next morning, he felt horrible as ever, but in many new ways. The dull ache in his head was finally gone, but was replaced with the sensation of someone boring through his skull with an electric drill. Cautiously, he opened one eye just slightly and was immediately assaulted by a merciless, unfortunately placed ray of sun that seemed to slash straight through his brain, burning the tender flesh as it went.

Groaning like a petulant zombie and wishing to be one if only it meant escaping this pain. Sokol shifted his weight and tried to get comfortable again, which was rather difficult considering the fact he had this annoying jacket thrown over his shoulders-- That’s right. Jacket. Last night not only did he have the serious lapse in judgment to go fully and entirely unconscious around the lunatic, but he did so in the madman’s _own bed._ The fact that hadn’t resulted in his own death sentence was a wonder.

With some physical effort and a great deal of willpower, he managed to sit up properly and rake a hand through his hair. It was fucking bright, painfully so, but at least it was quiet. His own bed looked untouched, and Jacket was nowhere to be seen. Sokol wondered impassively if he managed to force him onto the couch simply by putting him in such an uncomfortable situation so late at night.

Mustering the urge to get to his feet, he grabbed the heavy comfortable fabric on his lap and laid it on the bed.

Oh, that asshole didn’t.

How did he not realize immediately? A blink once, twice, three times, maybe more, but the sight in front of him didn't budge, not one part of it was a hallucination. If only it was. It was Jacket’s well, jacket, in all its well-loved, possibly blood-tainted, glory. That meant he’d just spent an entire night, an entire ten or so hours curled up in Jacket’s clothing, breathing in his scent -- The thought made physically ill. But maybe that was just the hangover talking.

Either way, he had zero intention of sticking around for much longer, God knows how it would look to some poor soul that barged in and forgot to knock. At least everyone else was still suffering the same fate as he was, hopefully that would hold them off for a little longer. 

“Morning,” Clover’s gaze was heavy on the back of his neck, but he didn’t respond besides giving her a polite nod. No such luck. Apparently he'd had slept in quite a bit later than he originally thought (Why was he still so tired, then?). Others had already arrived in the kitchen. And a conversation was the last thing he wanted right about now. “According to Jacket, the birdie’s back in his cage.” Sokol just stared at her, before she sighed at his apparent mental vacancy and clarified, “You slept in your guys’ room last night. Took long enough.”

Fuck, he told her? How much did he say? Surely anything he revealed would be thinly veiled in several layers of weird metaphors, but Clover wasn’t stupid. She’d pick up on it. Wasn’t it enough for him to… _humiliate_ him by treating him with such an unnatural degree of tenderness? Nursing him back to health like a wounded animal, sharing his belongings without being asked as if… as if Sokol was his girlfriend, or something.

Gross, so gross, and no doubt, this was all part of the master plan to get on his nerves. Everyone knew Jacket attained a childish sort of satisfaction pissing him off at every opportunity. Apparently the reactions he was getting recently just weren’t extreme enough, so he decided to ramp it up to the next level. And by God, was it fucking working.

Sokol wondered what colour chicken intestines would be pulped against the pavement.

“Hey, Earth to Sokol.” A hand waved a few times in front of his face was all it took for him to return to reality. Clover was giving him a weird look now and the kettle had finished boiling. “You good?”

“Yeah. All good.” Jacket was so lucky he was out somewhere at the moment. God was merciful on this day. The second Sokol got his hands on him he would do unimaginable things: break his kneecaps, no, scoop out his eyeballs, or harvest his fingernails, maybe all three, at once--

“Right. Anyways. I’m just joshin’. Good for you. I couldn’t live like that, with him breathing down my neck all the time. But hey, roommates aren’t so bad. If anyone can coax him out of his shell a little more, it’s you.”

Imagine. Sokol just laughed bitterly at what he thought was an obvious joke, brewing himself a cup of coffee that would hopefully be the elixir to make this increasingly unbearable morning just a little bit easier. When he turned to face his coworker again, he saw not a lick of humour on her face.

“He doesn’t let people touch his NES, you know. Sydney begged him for months just to try it, but he wouldn’t budge. Last night was the first time.”

So they were gaming buddies now, too? Just how fucked up was he last night? On second thought, the memory was there, if only just barely. They played some... weird American game. Very violent. Vivid colours splashed across the screen, every shade of the pixelated characters' insides. The controls were complicated and nonsensical, he'd lost to Jacket over and over again. There was shouting, a lot of it. And there was a smile. A subtle one, just a quirk at the corners of a silent mouth.

It hurt his head to try to make out anymore details, so he stopped trying.

The mere idea that Jacket could -- God forbid, -- have some sort of partiality to him, platonic or otherwise, made him want to take a long, hot shower. There was no way, it was impossible. He'd prevented any of that happening the day he ended their first real conversation by pinning the guy against a wall and trying to rehash his facial structure. Clearly someone had it twisted, and it wasn't him. “Maybe he doesn’t like Sydney.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” And she was right. Why did she have to be right? They got along quite well actually, occasionally he spotted the two of them together, her rambling about something, him looking only mildly interested but tolerating the treatment nonetheless. Earlier, he wondered, in a moment of weakness, if they were dating. Now he knew for certain. That he didn't care. And he'd rather put a toothpick under his toenail and kick a wall than think about them together.

A scoff was the only response he could think to offer, and he poured himself a cup of coffee, feeling that headache coming on again.


	3. the weight of something

There were so many superstitious ideas about a one way track to your wildest dreams. Wishing on 11:11. On a shooting star. Just scrunching our eyes, crossing your fingers, hoping as hard as you possibly could. Sokol didn’t really believe in any of that, but if he did, his one and only wish would be to make Jacket disappear for good. 

The only thing the American had brought to his life was pain and misery. It wasn’t even just the teasing at this point. Every breath, every sideways look, every accidental brush of their shoulders because the kitchen was a little too small-- was complete and utter torture. 

It was all Clover’s fault. At least, that’s what he chalked it up to be. She was the one that put these thoughts in his head. All of a sudden every time Jacket’s gaze lingered on him a little longer than necessary, every time Sokol cracked a cringeworthy joke and he just smiled and shook his head, it was a sign of something. Of what, Sokol wasn’t too sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Maybe he was just jealous. No matter how you spun it, Jacket was weird. Weird would be an understatement. He was socially difficult and standoffish and slightly unhinged, but everyone liked him just the same. Sure, he was hardly treated by a person by some of the people he worked with, but everyone looked to him with some variety of childlike wonder. He was an enigma. 

Sokol was a scrappy kid with imperfect English that liked ice hockey. If he was weird, it was never in a remarkable way.

Which was why it was so especially uncomfortable to have, what at least appeared to be, Jacket’s eyes trained on him all the time. There was something he saw in him. It was hard to say whether it was something to be proud of. As Grandma Kozak would put it, was he just admiring a fellow member of the pack, or searching for the rabbit with the tenderest neck?

Thinking about his family used to be a form of comfort for him, but recently he’d come to the conclusion they probably wouldn’t even recognize him anymore. Their little Sergei, leaving a trail of emptied banks across some country oceans away, dressed sharply in a suit whose brand name he could hardly pronounce. His brother would grin and call him “сорвиголова.” _Badass._ His mother would scold him, tell him to marry a nice woman and settle down for once, and he’d laugh like he always did and clasp her on the shoulder and promise he would.

The truth was, settling down never really suited him, he always dreamt of pushing everything a little bit further. There was nothing like a fist to the face or the warmth of blood on your tongue to remind you how desperately you wanted to be alive. And, he supposed, the ultimate manifestation of that turned out to be breaking the law for a living because, well… he felt like it.

But sometimes when the lights flickered out and he thumbed a fresh stack of bills in a shadowy hand, he hoped and wished and wondered about bringing all he’d earned, all he’d made of himself, back to Russia. Because at the end of the day, he was a Kozak first, and a heister second.

Sometimes he wondered what they’d think of Jacket, if they’d hate him as much as he did. It seemed relatively likely. As far as anyone knew, Jacket didn’t have anyone to provide for, and his motives for being part of the gang were sketchy at best. And if they found out there was a possibility he was not only a violent criminal, but gay, too-- let’s just say there would be hell to pay. Best case scenario, they’d call him a few colourful words. Ugly ones that made Sokol bite the inside of his cheek and become suspiciously interested in the floor.

On one particular occasion when they’d brushed past each other in the hallways -- which ultimately led to Sokol using up all the hot water scrubbing himself clean and spacing out with his head against the bathroom tile, -- he emerged from the shower feeling spacey and hollow. When he wandered to the kitchen in search of that weird energy drink Dallas kept buying, of course, there he was. The bane of his very existence, with just about everyone in the building crowded over his shoulder.

Their eyes were trained on the laptop screen in front of them, some with looks of interests, others with mild amusement. It looked expensive. Turned out his motives weren’t so mysterious after all, nor were they complicated. 

Judging by the way the others didn’t react to his entrance, he hadn’t come in too loudly. Jacket looked up at him anyway. No smile, just his usual curious stare. So typical.

Somehow, Sokol hoped he was still looking at him when he turned on his heel to leave.

\---

That night was a sleepless one, possibly due in part to the fact that Jacket was up into the wee hours of the night on his laptop, playing some violent video game if the rapid tapping of the keyboard was anything to go by. You would think Sokol would be used to the soft glow of blue light by now, but he wasn’t.

“I know you’re awake.”

The sound was jarring at first, it wasn’t the usual female robotic voice he was used to, but it didn’t take long to put two and two together and realize where it was coming from. There was no way he was giving him the satisfaction.

“Иди сюда.” _Come here._

So he’d resorted to Google Translate now, too. Dirty bastard. Sokol just huffed. More silence.

“I want to show you something.”

The covers practically fell off the bed with the way they were manhandled, but Sokol got to his feet and trudged over to the bed just a few steps away, if only in the hope it would mean shutting this asshole up. Jacket didn’t even look pleased. Maybe a smile would make it worth it. He peered over his shoulder, entirely uncertain what to expect. He was not disappointed.

“How did you know?”

“It’s very popular in Russia. You’re young. I didn’t expect you to be too out of touch.” There it was. The little quirk at the corners of his mouth. For once Sokol smiled back, and meant it. As Jacket tabbed out of the browser window, the menu screen for S.T.A.L.K.E.R. reappeared once again, higher definition than the man next to him had ever seen it.

Of course, they didn’t have too great of a computer back home to run it, but Sokol was a teenager, just 16 when it first came out, and immediately fell in love. Nothing could keep his attention for long, reckless and adventuresome as he was, but he spent hours curled up in the living room adventuring through the harsh realities of The Zone. 

Before long he found himself walking Jacket through it all, his favourite characters and bits of dialogue. Pointing out all the best spots to loot and find artifacts, mimicking voice lines and monologues he’d memorized because he’d played the mission too many times to count. And Jacket listened to it all, with an affinity only a classic video game fanatic could have. Hours passed, then Jacket’s chin was resting on his shoulder, nodding with every maybe-a-little-too-detailed explanation, and they were so close, so close...

Their foreheads touched for just a moment, and wow, didn’t those eyes look beautiful up close? Still as calm and untouchable as ever, completely unaware of the heart racing just a breath away from him. But he was waiting, biding his time, searching for something. A sign.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

So Jacket just smiled, and kissed him.

It was soundless and careful at first, like sneaking a bit of something you weren’t supposed to, but suddenly it changed pitch to something more fervid, and like lapping at a seeping wound, Sokol took everything he was given with the promise of more. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when Jacket said he wanted to “show him something”, but he wasn’t about to object. Not yet, anyway, he concluded as he tilted his head slightly and hummed in complete and utter swoon-worthy pleasure. It felt too right.

And yet, something about it wasn’t as delicate and innocent as it seemed to be on the surface. The tension hadn’t only been getting to only one of them, Sokol realized all at once as cold hands brushed over his neck and jaw. A decidedly gentle gesture, but a possessive one nonetheless. Because, after all, this wasn’t desire born from exchanged peonies and shy looks, it was one of bruised knuckles and hot showers and sleepless nights. And for that reason, and many others, it would never be pure.

In an instant, Sokol felt all the blood in his body rush to his head, and the mouth against his was walking the fine line between pleasure and pain, no way were there bare hands against his waist now, and everything was moving entirely too fast.

“Jacket, stop.”

So he did.

And the absence of his warmth was felt immediately, and now everything was still. The quiet prickled against his skin, but Jacket didn’t even look dejected or disappointed so much as he looked worried. Maybe a little confused.

“I can’t do this.” He sat up, and it sounded like a lie, so he said it again. And again. “I can’t do this. Дерьмо, I can’t do this…”

Whatever was in those eyes was gone now, replaced only with hurt. Guilt. Emotions he’d never seen on Jacket, but that was the furthest thing from his biggest concern. Now that they were apart again the kiss seemed an eternity away. Surreal. Like a bad nightmare. So maybe it could be forgotten just as easily. “It’s nothing you did… I’m just… I’m not--” The silence hung heavy between them as he searched for the English word. All he could remember was his family’s faces. And their words, their reasons. “I don’t like you like that. Okay?”

And Jacket just nodded. No anger, no distrust, just a sign of his understanding. The laptop clicked shut.

“Fuck. I’m gonna go take another shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you had as much fun reading this chapter as i had writing it :] i love s.t.a.l.k.e.r. so much and i thought the time frame and ages were perfect


	4. letting go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the dinky, delayed chapter! i've been doing really poorly mentally recently and it's been hard to get the motivation to write. thank you for the support on this fic :] next chapter will be the last one for this work i think, but i have lots of other ideas for payday stuff soon. hope you enjoy!!

To say things were cold between them after that would be an understatement. The weeks between them built a delicate house of cards, and Sokol had knocked it all over in one fell swoop. A quick shove, a breath a little heavier than intended, and it was all over.

Which is what he wanted, right? His problem disappeared just as quickly as it presented itself: Jacket kept a safe distance away and he was happy. So why did it hurt so much to crack a joke and turn, expecting to see a sideways glance or an almost imperceptible smile, only to be met with nothing? Nothing but the trademark blankness that once preceded it.

Even crude insults and physical aggression had lost its initial charm, but that didn’t stop Sokol from trying. The space between them went from fire, to ice, to venom. Now curse-laced rants fell futile to an empty stare. A shove past in the hall garnered no response, not even a mischievous eyebrow raise or eye roll. Jacket just took it. He grit his teeth and took it all, not even batting an eye, and where was the fun in that?

There was an ache deep in his chest, a longing, a yearning for chances he didn’t take, moments that should’ve been his. He wished for a simpler time, where he didn’t have to watch enviously as Sydney and Jacket played fighter games together late into the night. Where he didn’t have to linger in the kitchen a little longer than the others because he woke up late, and there was no longer a cup of coffee waiting for him on the counter like there used to be. Exactly how he liked it, no cream, two sugars.

Surely this wasn’t what he wanted. 

So what did he want? A question easier asked than answered, it turned out, one he wasn’t too determined to solve anyway. Jacket had lost interest, and that was the important part.

It was complicated enough to deal with his own feelings without worrying about someone else entirely.

It was hard to ignore something like that, though, -- despite his surface level patience, the effect the situation had on Jacket was glaringly obvious the moment he got his hands on a weapon. If he was unafraid of death before, he was downright reckless now. If he used to be sadistic, he went out of his way to indulge in mindless, unnecessary violence. He took the dirtiest, most difficult missions and relished every minute of it. 

No one wanted to get in his way in the midst of his sudden, emotionally-charged rampage, and they were even less likely to put their neck on the line and, god forbid, ask what was wrong.

Which was a saving grace for Sokol. It turned out cleaner costs got expensive by the second or third heist, and at this point, Bain would be more than happy to have someone to direct his anger to. As if Sokol wasn’t on the receiving end of that enough already.

“Hey. Boss says we have a mission today. Together.” No response. A shove did little more than jostle Jacket’s shoulder. Still no response. He might as well have thrown his cassette player away, or doused it in water -- no one could get a word out of him nowadays. At this point, Sokol wouldn’t be surprised, with the unwarranted destructive energy in his every move. “Come on. You should be happy I’ll be there to take care of you.”

A swift elbow to the chest knocked all the air out of Sokol’s lungs, nothing he wasn’t used to, but it was so sudden and unexpected, the pure shock was like being dipped in ice water. And the furious gaze in those dark brown eyes as Jacket shouldered past him was like being engulfed in flames.

“We need someone to get the code from the manager. He’s surrounded by armed guards. Stealth isn’t an option, things are gonna get messy. You know what to do.” Bain’s voice had hardly crackled out to silence before Jacket had left, abandoning the group for what appeared to be another one of his solo tirades. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Dallas lowered his weapon, watching the heister leave with the cumulative exasperation of a thousand dads at the supermarket. So far, he wasn’t the most keen on their new recruit. No one in the business was particularly stable, hell, their wallets were getting lined by a guy who requested they transport nuclear warheads, but Jacket was in a league all of his own.

“No.” Before Sokol could take more than two steps after him, in hopes he could sneak in a few shots, or at least keep a watchful eye, a firm hand fell on his shoulder. “Stay close, I don’t want you two bickering and bringing the whole gig down. You don't need to babysit him. If he needs help, he’ll say so.”

As the windows of the building just a few meters away flickered with the lights and sound of at least ten separate assault rifles firing at once, Sokol decided he somehow doubted it.

\---

“Last one.” The duffel bag swell with money made a satisfying thump as it landed in the van, the last act in their bloody, bloody dance. This heist was a hairy one for sure, Bonnie had insisted on going for all the cash -- so she could gamble it away soon after, most likely -- and by this time the police resistance was ramping up to a point that was almost impossible for them to handle.

Key word being almost. That was the name of the game, after all, to push the limits further than any of them thought possible, and not get caught. And infinitely more importantly, not die. Sokol loved every minute of it. It was all he ever dreamed of, besides the money, of course. He had all the adrenaline high he’d ever wanted, and then some.

“American asses kicked!” Bonnie offered a gloved hand for a quick high five at his words, and despite her concealed face, Sokol knew she was smiling. Closing the van, Dallas lifted his mask to squint into the shadowy distance, awaiting the appearance of their last accomplice. His expression darkened almost instantly, and Sokol knew he was right all along. But there no was no "I told you so," moment, there was no triumph or victory at this sight.

His heart dropped.

It was a wonder Jacket managed to walk, although it was closer to stumbling. Two dark stains seeped through his clothing, one on his side, and one on his thigh, difficult to see because of the midnight atmosphere, but more and more obvious the closer to the group he got. There would be questions from everyone when they returned, no doubt. Why didn't he ask for help? Why had he gone alone? They couldn't afford to ignore the issue any longer, not when he was allowing himself get battered and beaten to a point that would have more lasting effects. There was a clear line between boldness and dumbassery, and Jacket had crossed it with flying colours.

“Bonnie, medic bag!” Dallas managed to take a step forward in time to brace his fall. The concrete beneath him was painted a deep shade of red, and his jagged breaths were audible now.

“We don’t have a fucking medic bag!”

“Yes, we do!”

“We used it earlier!”

The tense silence was broken by Jacket sniveling softly, an uncharacteristically pathetic sound that caused Sokol to drop to his knees instantly, and lift the rubber mask off his face to reveal… a ghost. Or something close to it. It was obvious he didn’t have much blood left, he was impossibly pale, and his eyes were fluttering shut.

“You’re fine.”

“Buddy--” Dallas started, but Sokol ignored him entirely, fishing a utility knife out of his suit jacket and shedding it instantly, getting to work cutting off one of his sleeves with such panicked aggression, it was a wonder he didn’t manage to slice his own arm open.

“Come on, you’re fine.” The slight wince Jacket gave as his leg was wrapped up was a good sign, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, but it was more than enough to pretend. 

The blood was warm as it bloomed across Sokol’s hands, lacing itself between his fingers, dripping down his palm. The blood he’d feared, the blood he’d spent days trying to scrub out of his skin, out of his clothes, covered him now. 

He cut a second piece of fabric.

So was this his fault after all? No, that was stupid-- He’d done everything in his power to make amends, to fix what he’d broken, and Jacket wanted none of it. But it was hard to blame the man lying in front of him for doing this to himself when he was losing more blood than Sokol had ever seen in his life -- yes, hockey games included -- and lay there gasping desperately, fighting for just another breath. There was a certain kind serenity to it all, the way he leaned his head back and allowed Sokol to take his ice-cold hand and rub the back of it with his thumb, as if he could somehow offer up some of his warmth. Of course, Jacket had seen this coming. And he didn’t care.

How could he not care? Tears pricked at Sokol’s eyes now as he realized this is how he could die, cold and empty on the pavement, as recklessly as he had lived. And he’d become nothing but a memory, life would go back to normal for Sokol; hell, he’d have an entire bedroom all to himself. But somehow normal seemed unbearable if normal meant being without Jacket’s constant, silent presence.

It was hard to realize how much Sokol cared for him, it was hard to realize now, at the worst possible time, just in time for it all to go away. And maybe it was selfish, but he needed him to stay alive, no matter how bad things got between them, having him gone was like having a piece of him missing.

“You’re fine, you asshole…” Tearing a glove off of one his hands, still shaking with fear, or maybe it was anger, or guilt-- he placed two gentle fingers and searched, finding, to his relief, a thready, fading pulse. With the way he was struggling to breathe, you’d think he was the one bleeding out, but he managed to force out a few more words. A promise. “You’ll be okay.” _I need you._


	5. if i'm filthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i lied about this being the last chapter haha. i wanted to section this off in case anyone didn't feel comfortable reading something with very heavy themes of alcohol dependency/depression/suicide, and it turned out being longer than expected. sorry.

“What the fuck happened to you lot? You look awful.” Of course, Sydney was lounging on the sofa in the common room, snacking away on some peanuts she probably stole from Hoxton, completely unawares to what just took place. Her eyes were drawn immediately to Sokol, more specifically, the horrendous state of his clothing. “What’s this? Going for the punk look? You pull it off well.”

“Jacket got shot.” It was hard not to sound choked up, and his words came out more loudly, more sharply than intended. Dallas just sighed under his breath, and both him and Bonnie were off the scene in a few moments.

“Well, yeah, I would think so. That’s kinda part of the job description --”

“Bad. I think he’s dead.”

Sydney lowered a peanut. 

“No, he isn’t. You guys would have to let him die, you guys wouldn’t let him die--”

“We didn’t  _ let him _ anything, okay? He left without us. I couldn’t get there in time.” Everything was silent except a few muffled voices upstairs. Dallas was probably breaking the news to the rest of the gang. It was probably going a lot better than this. “Sorry be the bearer of such bad news. At least you were here having a nice snack instead of watching it all go down, yeah?”

He knew his words were venomous now, and they were ones she hadn’t earned, but they spilled out, and he didn’t care enough to stop them. He felt no delight in seeing the hurt in her eyes, rather, the guilt festering inside him grew exponentially knowing what his emotions were turning him into, what more damage they could cause to people around him.

Feelings never did cease to complicate things. 

Before she could even formulate a snarky response, he was gone, slamming the bathroom door behind him. 

It was a ritual he’d carried out many times before, even more times since Jacket had joined the gang, but this time it felt surreal. Even in his image in the mirror, bloodied and battered with tears now spilling down his face, felt like a bad dream. If only it was all a bad dream. 

Jacket was with an emergency contact now, one that would be able to provide the best, possibly illegal and risky, life-saving care he’d need. If it wasn’t too late. If it was too late, who’s fault was that? Bonnie’s, for not saving the medic bag, even though she couldn’t have known they needed it? Dallas’, for not letting Sokol go with him? Or Sokol himself’s, for wasting time with theatrics, with improvisational solutions that probably ultimately caused more harm than good?

Regardless of the reason, they’d have to deal with it. And maybe this was what Jacket would’ve wanted in the end. Sokol remembered one particular rainy night when a thunderstorm echoed against the glass, and Jacket was awake long into the night, tossing and turning, fidgeting with constant vigilance. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was going on. Sokol had done his fair share of compulsory military service, but that probably wasn’t all it was, either.

Sometimes the younger wondered how you could live with yourself, after ending so many lives so brutally, so personally, seeing the fear in each of your victim’s eyes individually as you occupied their last few seconds of consciousness. As the truth was, maybe Jacket couldn’t. Maybe that was the reason he didn’t speak to anyone, the reason he refused to feel, to show any emotion other than restlessness or blinding rage. 

And amusement. There was amusement, sometimes too, Sokol decided, none too happily. Because he was still human, as much as he tried not to be. As much as he tried to convince everyone else he was something else entirely to keep himself safe, deep down, he was tender. And it showed. Each time Houston chewed out his brother for buying orange juice with pulp, or Sydney cussed out a particularly troublesome cop with every creative Australian insult she could muster, there was undeniable fondness there. Or at least, there used to be. 

Now he was giving up on them, because he apparently decided they weren’t worth it, weren’t worth the weight he had to carry with him every single day. And who could blame him, really, unlike hidden feelings and fleeting touch, it wouldn’t come to pass so easily with time.

Sokol turned the shower on.

Maybe it was time for Jacket to finally get some rest.

\---

The days that followed were a sleepless, angsty blur. Updates from the special content on Jacket's condition were scarce and vague at best. All they knew was he was living, but just barely. Though Sokol was mostly joking when he claimed vodka was the solution to everything, he would be lying if he didn't get a little desperate and decide to return his roots a couple times. 

Everything had crawled to a stop when Jacket hit the ground. It was as if Sokol was a rubber band, and in that moment the tension and confusion and adrenaline that had kept him going for so long disappeared, leaving him limp. Empty. Replaced with a simple, almost instinctive want.

That Jacket would live to see another day.

There was nothing left in him to ponder over whether or not he felt this or that, because at the end of it all, there was one thing he felt, one thing he was certain of more than anything else.

He couldn't lose him, not like this. Not now.

"How are you holding up, kiddo?" Bonnie's tone was casual, but the searching gaze in her eyes betrayed her concern. Apparently even she felt too awful to gamble away money that could have come at the cost of the life of one of their own, but she hung out in the basement by the slot machines anyway. She saw each time he flagged down the bartender, and refused retiring to what was once both his and Jacket's room, in favor of saying up long into the night.

"I'm holding." 

The bottle in his hand clinked against the counter, and she adjusted her position in the stool uncomfortably, apparently not satisfied with that answer.

"I hope you don't think it's your fault, you know."

"I never said it was."

"I know you didn't."

Footsteps echoed just above them, most likely Dallas or Hoxton leaving the office for the night. Hardly anyone was awake at this hour of the night, but sleep was the last thing on Sokol's mind.

"Look," A heavy sigh, just then — Bonnie was a stout woman, and carried herself as such, but she had a degree of gentle charm to her. She reminded him a bit of his mother. "Things 'ave been hard. It's been hard on all of us, no doubt, but you especially, — I saw it in the way you looked at him just then. Dallas did too, I know it, but if he doesn't care enough to ask about what's eating ya about him being gone, I'll do it. I will."

A gentle hand came to rest on his forearm, and he looked up to meet her disarming gaze, sleep deprived and grieving and probably a little more drunk than he should've been, and felt things starting to unravel.

"So tell me. What's wrong?"

"I wish I knew." Bonnie tilted her head slightly, with interest but not impatience, and he realized quite quickly it was hard to formulate good English sentences with alcohol clouding his judgment. "It's— I don't know. I thought I hated him. I mean, how could I not, but there's something about him that makes me… different. I'm not like myself when I'm with him."

"In a good way?"

"I don't know."

The pensive hum she gave felt almost like a pang of pity, after all, what was there to ponder in a line of judgment so nonsensical, but Sokol couldn't find it in himself doubt her intentions in the moment. The silence begged him to continue.

"I guess I'm just… afraid. A little bit. Of what would happen if there's no one else like him. Maybe no one else would make me feel that way again. I don't want that, even if I don't understand it."

"Well, I can't blame ya for that one. Pretty big, or at least, wacky shoes to fill."

It took Sokol a moment to realize he was smiling.

"So, how fucked am I?"

She leaned back against her chair slightly, tapping her chin in thought. "Well, I figure this: he might be just fine after all. And whatever it is you two have is special, even if you aren't sure just what it is yet. So, if he turns out to be okay in the end, you oughta tell him so. Or at least try to make it last a little longer."

Not dead yet. Yeah, if Jacket survived and tried to pull a similar stunt any other time in the next fifty years, Sokol would probably skin him alive, and Bonnie would do it once more just for upsetting the Russian. It was a good thought, a hopeful one. The first of its kind in a while.

"You're right, I'm not happy it took something so crazy for me to figure things out, but… you know."

"Better late than never." She smiled for just a moment before getting to her feet again, fishing the bottle out from under his nose with an expression that was equal parts scolding and mischievous. "Now, I'll be taking this off your hands."

Amazingly, he felt well enough to pull his usual pouty face, and just as she was about to leave the bar area, he called out to her again. "Bonnie?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note on the bonnie thing: i thought it was so cute that sokol in game has some of the same lines/turns of phrase and calls her "beautiful bonnie" and "bon", so i kind of hc they have a mother/son relationship... so sweet


	6. peace in your violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's done! thanks for coming with me on this trainwreck of a fic, this chapter is short and basically pure fluff, but i didn't want to inflate it too much or add filler. more of a soft epilogue, i suppose :] well, i have a lot of other ideas for payday, some about these two, some not... hopefully it won't be long before i write something else. much love.

"Your room is almost done."

"What?"

"Your bedroom. It's just about ready for you to move in now. I'm sure you'll be happy about that." Dallas grinned, but Sokol didn't feel the same enthusiasm at his words. If the news had come weeks, hell, even days ago, he would've been ecstatic about it. But now? When he wanted to make things up to Jacket and needed every excuse to talk to him he could get? It seemed like nothing could come easily.

"Oh, yes. Good." It was hard to raise his voice above a murmur and hide his disappointment, but he had no other choice. Bonnie had provided him with about all the intrusive questions he could take for the time being, so his main focus was acting as if everything was back to normal and keeping things on the down low.

So when Jacket returned early from the hospital, because, as it turned out, it was rather frustrating to deal with a patient that would stare at you blankly instead of responding nine times out of ten, he kept his distance. He continued to bide his time, waiting for when the moment was just right.

Maybe it never would be.

The truth was, when he imagined that perfect moment, he imagined everything else to be perfect too. Maybe in some alternate dimension, they'd never laid hands on each other. Jacket never hit the ground that night, and Sokol's teammates hadn't watched him fall apart piece by piece.

But given the chance, it was hard to say for sure whether or not he would've taken that dimension over this one. Sure, it was messy and loud and violent, but it suited them.

Maybe the Jacket of that dimension wouldn't look quite so dashing covered in blood.

\---

"Are you mad at me?"

The words were scrawled on a cheap notepad, the heavy chicken scratch Sokol had regarded with nothing but pure disgust the first time he'd seen them scrawled at the bottom of a legal form. Shitty handwriting for a shitty guy, just as hard to understand.

"Why would I be mad?" Sokol tried, even though the real question he wanted to ask was 'Why do you care?' It felt good to know he still took interest in him at all, even if he felt he didn't deserve it. As he continued bandaging the bullet wounds as innocently as possible, he didn't have to look up at the eyebrow raise to know it was there.

"I almost died." Then in hasty brackets, "Like an idiot." There was a moment's pause while they just smiled at each other gently before Jacket took the notepad back and added something else. "Sydney said you ruined your favourite shirt."

"I can buy a new one." The roll of gauze joined the other assorted clutter on the nightstand: other various medical supplies, painkillers. A Nintendo DS, probably with some equally violent video games on it. Everyone took turns dressing Jacket's wounds, except Hoxton, who claimed he'd rather die. Sokol always offered to fill in when someone was too busy.

There was a moment of perfect stillness between them, without unsaid words or quiet tension polluting the space that kept them apart. Just peace, for the first time in a while. Sokol let his head rest on the mattress, and a hand tangled into his hair.

"I'm sorry, you know."

The hand twitched slightly.

"I should have said something earlier, I didn't know what to say. Or how to say it. How... to make you understand how I felt." Or that I felt anything at all, he wanted to add, but the words stopped coming to him, his brain short-circuited when the hand drifted to the back of his neck. Fingertips brushed against his jaw, coaxing him to look up.

Jacket mouthed two words, and smiled.

"It's okay."

And there were those tears again, because he believed him. 

Life had been nothing less than a perfect storm the last few weeks, an awful coalescent flurry of anger and guilt and self-hatred that tasted about as good as American borscht, but things would finally go back to normal. Maybe even better. Because sure, things could just as easily go bad again, such was life in the underground crime world, but it was nice to know he wouldn't have to do it alone.

The gap closed between them, and everything was right all over again.

"Ah, Jacket— they're going to see..." The thought of the unlocked door made him bristle, but he offered not a lick of resistance as an insistent tug on his tie pulled him further onto the bed. Because sure, he wasn't entirely ready to let this be more than a guilty secret, but he'd denied himself this for too long already.

And what was a little risk as long as it came with a good payday?


End file.
